


Perfect Day

by lucys_poppy24



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Funeral, Gen, London, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucys_poppy24/pseuds/lucys_poppy24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gloomy days are supposedly perfect for funerals. One such man agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my "first" fanfiction ever, the first that I have ever shared with anyone. I'm still not sure if I have anything akin to writing talent, so commentary is very welcome! :) It's short and sour, but I hope you like it! Enjoy.

 

One would think that London was always gloomy. Not always, but some days are, as is this one. The clouds in the heavens are grey, the smog hangs low and thick. The weather seems to reflect on the populace, making them weary, slow and colourless. One would also say it was a perfect day for a funeral, and so it was. One likes to be left to grieve and wallow in sadness. One does not want for the world to carry on cheerily while one is in agony. One wishes for the world to stop, acknowledge one's terrible loss and be as miserable as they are. Happy sunny weather spoils that. No one yearns for bright colours and lively laughter when their world has been shot to pieces. No, today is a good day for a funeral.

One such person sits straight-backed upon their bed, in rented quarters rather than a sibling's spare room. One such person stares blankly at the clock that no doubt hangs in many an establishment such as this, and grimly accepts the fact the funeral has already begun. Without him. His dead eyes then stare out through the window and look upon the Grey London and he silently thanks the gods for this small mercy.

In this Grey London, some time and place further away, another person stares out of their window, observing the wary, slow, colourless populace going about their day. Normally playing the violin helps him think, this time he endeavours to loose himself in the quiet lilting melody it was emitting. At this time he does not want to know and deduce everything, at this time he wants to  _not be_. Not be here, not be him, not be responsible for today.

At this thought his arm slackens, the motion making the bow scape horribly across the violin's bowstrings. He wants to throw it out of the window or smash it upon the hardwood floor. But he wouldn't be who he is if he made a habit of acting upon such petulant actions. He places the violin gently into its case, delicately running his fingers over the rosewood.

There were almost inaudible clicks of the door opening and closing coming from downstairs. The violin player could tell from the light and measured pace of the newcomer that it was his older brother. His eyes close slowly, the only sign of agitation the slight crease of his left brow. He proceeds to put away all his equipment, each action quiet, precise and slow. He walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. The sound it's making is harsh, scratching and vile against the quiet solitude of the flat. He hates it, wishes he could rip out its electrical innards and silence it. The kettle clicks, signalling the water to be of boiling temperature. His anger dissipates, he lets it flow out of his limbs, his body slumping for the slightest fraction. He fetches the china tea cups, saucers and tea pot, puts loose tea leaves in the tea pot and pours the water over them. Placing all this on a silver tray, he carries it out into the sitting room, setting it down on the coffee table. 

There's no need for greetings, they're brothers only on paper. The younger one pours out the tea, adds sugar. He could never forget how his brother prefers his tea. The older gentleman uncrosses his legs and leans forward on the sofa, accepting the hot beverage.

Outside, twilight is setting in, but none in the silent flat make a move to turn on any lights. They both drink their tea in silence, conveying any words they wish to say through tiny grimaces, tired stares or blank expressions. The youngest finishes his tea first and quickly moves back to the window, probably taking a pinch of pleasure in knowing the light from beyond the room would cast his silhouette even darker onto his brothers eyes, making him less readable. 

The older, a government official, drains his cup with all the manners and slow gestures of a lord from yesteryear and rises up from the seating area with just as much grace. Picking up his black Liberty's umbrella, he guides his feet to the door. With one gloved hand upon the handle, he turns his head ever so slightly to the side and says:

“How much longer til-”, but his baby brother interrupts him, as he knew he hated it.

“How was the ceremony? I'm quite sure at least 5 people turned up.” His words almost sound light hearted. 

The hand on the handle tightens. “He wasn't there. Many others came, but not him.” 

The pitch black shadow of the younger, cast upon the door, leans into the equally pitch black curtains.

“In the end, I suppose, he couldn't bear it. I wish I could say 'I never knew he cared so much', but that, as you know dear brother, would be a lie.” After that words fail him, unlike so many times before. There was nothing left to be done, so he grips the door handle even tighter and pulls the door open. He pauses silently on the threshold to glance at his sibling. Still shrouded in darkness, he seems just as before, leaning against the wall. It took the eye of a Holmes to notice it.

The tiniest of tremors was starting in his shoulders. They both seem to be ignoring the fact they were getting more ragged.

The younger Holmes may have turned to his brother at this point, possibly seeking a tiny shred of solace. In such a case he would have found his brother gone and the door shut tightly behind him.


End file.
